Author Note: So. I've been on a two or so week hiatus. Why, you may ask, have I been on this two week hiatus? Well, the first and foremost: AP exams. For those of you who had them, I'm sure you feel my pain. And surprisingly, AP English Lang&Comp kicked my arse. Seriously. And plus, the synthesis question was bull. pennies? wtf. Secondly, laziness: I had to study for AP Exams. studying leads to not writing. not writing needs to nothing being worked on. nothing being worked on leads to no updates. and here we are. Plus, there are only a few weeks of school left. Two, actually. And my birthday is soon as well. (Which means I'm on an epic hunt for a Toyota Yaris that isn't super expensive.)

So, don't expect much between now and May 29th. I still have three exams left to take. Anyway, this story is something I've been saving for a rainy day, per se. And feedback for said story makes me happy. very much so, in fact. Also, this story borderlines on M, but only for language. No random crazy vampire orgies where Emmett is randomly dressed up as a ballerina and prancing around with vampire animals that would qualify the story as M.

"Last night I woke alone with a whisper in my earRecanting all my aspirations and my fearsAnd when the sun came up that voice had disappearedBut it would linger on for years"—Streetlight Manifesto, Watch It Crash.

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No interference. He promised that. A clean break. To let her get on with her, you know, unanimously happy lifestyle in a too-small town, with too little sunlight, a father who all but refused to acknowledge zombie mode Bella, and too many people who knew "the story."

The bastard just couldn't… stay away. First the Pacific Northwest Trust, now this. She got his first letter the day she got her acceptance letter from Northwestern University in Chicago. He just couldn't stay away. Selfish jerk. The cheater. Go figure. Edward was always the type to give in first. Interference, my ass. She thought in utter annoyance. It wasn't even annoyance anymore, she was positively livid.

She happily showed Charlie the acceptance letter, and he grinned and informed her they would go out for a celebratory dinner that night. After all, Northwestern was practically Ivy League. It was up there with the likes of Duke, Stanford, Brown, and Boston University, some of the hardest schools in the United States to get in to. Granted, she was pleased that she got in. It didn't matter if she was accepting or not, she still got in. The first time she had been pleased with really… anything in a long, long time.

Except when she politely turned Mike Newton down for a date. And saw the look on his face.

Charlie had grinned and tousled her hair, then told her to get ready to go, and put on something nice. She just grinned again and nodded. To her, it seemed too overenthusiastic and fake, though. Well, that's what zombie mode does to people, she supposed, as she bounded up the steps, not tripping on one for once in her life.

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When she got into the safe confines of her four wall habitat, or dungeon, or whatever she was deciding to call it these days, she threw the unopened envelope on her bed and sauntered over to her closet, flicking through the sweaters, skirts, t-shirts, thermals, hoodies, and jackets that occupied it. After looking over everything once or twice, she ended up setting out a white skirt, a crimson colored long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of relatively comfortable shoes. Casual. Kinda nice. Not something she would wear to school.

After setting the clothes on her desk, she crossed the room and sat in the rocking chair, glaring at the letter sitting on her bed. Insults ran through her head at a hundred miles per hour. Synapses transmitted signals of pain and anger through her brain simultaneously. She crossed her arms over her chest and continued to glare maliciously at the envelope. The glaring continued like that for another five or so minutes before Charlie tapped on her door, saying that he was out of the shower.

She replied quickly and continued glaring at the letter for a few more seconds, then walked over and began the process of tearing it open. It had no return address, but that didn't matter. She could tell from the handwriting on the front.

She shook out the letter on to her bed, ignoring it for a few seconds and then flipping it over, reading it carefully.

Dear You;

There isn't an escape. These streets, they're just dead ends. So I won't ever be happy again. Well, it seems you too, see a painful blue. When you stare into the sky, you could never understand the motion of a hand waving you goodbye. But as the story goes, or it is often told—a new day will arise, and all the dance halls will be full of skeletons that are coming back to life. And on a grassy hill, the lion will lay down with the lamb.

Xo,

Me.

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